


AJKSM

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing hotter, Jim is sure, than Leonard McCoy in scrubs.  Unless it's Leonard McCoy in dress uniform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AJKSM

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of a simultaneous double line for [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), to hit the kinks "exposure/exhibitionism" and "uniforms/military kink" (as my wildcard). Somewhat cracky. Beta'd by and with bonus art by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/) (NSFW). Does not contain any public sex or nudity.

 

“Jesus, Bones, and I thought you were hot in scrubs!”

The newly dress-uniformed Leonard McCoy shows him the back of his finger while continuing to eye himself critically in the mirror.

Jim ponders. “I think you’re actually hotter in scrubs than in regular uniform. That’s pretty unusual.”

“I’m an unusual guy. Why in the _hell_ do they have to make these collars so tight?”

Jim considers the matter. Collars. Tight. Starchy. Formal. _Hot_. He can’t really complain. In fact, he’d like to stop McCoy’s hands pulling at the thing, give them something better to do while he… “I, uh…” Jim wets his lips. “I don’t suppose the pants are too tight too?”

“Out!” McCoy barks. Jim pouts, and the familiar McCoy scowl softens. “Time’s a-wasting, and I still gotta give my paper one last glance before I leave for the conference.”

Jim sniffs. “Okay. I know when I’m not wanted.”

McCoy rolls his eyes. Just for that, Jim slaps his butt on the way out.

Well, maybe not _just_ for that.

***

The McCoy-free weekend has not been kind to Jim. He knows better than to go out for drinks and a little recreational impromptu hand-to-hand practice during term time. He’s ahead on all his reading, as usual. Uhura has perfected her Wall of Complete Indifference and is now best appreciated from a distance. Captain Pike is off inspecting the _Enterprise_ , again. (Not that he’s all that entertaining at the best of times; he has a tendency to lecture Jim on how Starfleet used to be _n_ times more awesome in the good old days, when it was more interested in developing new varieties of high-yield grain than weapons. Jim’s all in favour of feeding the universe, but he’s pretty sure the two endeavours can co-exist.) Anyway, by Saturday evening he’s reached the point where he’s repeatedly swapping out punctuation marks in his research essay for Lieutenant Jackman, trying to decide whether the comma or the semi-colon looks better in a particular sentence while strongly suspecting that the Lieutenant cannot in fact tell the difference. On second thought, he’ll probably get extra points for the semi-colon. He snorts and adds it back in.

After signing off his padd, Jim stretches out on his bunk. Lets his thoughts wander.

They land on a question perhaps not as age-old as the one about commas and semi-colons, but certainly more diverting for someone of Jim Kirk’s lofty intellect.

_Just how hot is Leonard H. McCoy in his Starfleet-issued dress uniform?_

There is, of course, a profound lack of objective measures in this particular domain of intellectual enquiry. But hotness is relative, and he can categorise Dress Uniform Bones against other examples of the species.

Naked Bones, glimpsed coming out of the head one morning, immediately prior to spontaneous lecture on Uninvited Keyless Entry to Your Friends’ Quarters: Why This is a Bad Thing, Jim (sadly, even though Jim had listened attentively and nodded in all the right places, no extra credit was offered for this seminar). Hotness factor: above average for human males of this age group, though obviously not as hot as—

Casual Bones, uncommon but _much_ easier to spot in the wild than Naked Bones, typically found in his dorm room shortly after his shift or last class ends. Hotness factor: simmering, though hardly comparable to—

Cadet Uniform Bones, available for viewing almost any day on Starfleet Academy campus while en route to somewhere in a hurry. Hotness factor: significant; would bend over for in deserted alley. This hotness, however, is easily surpassed by—

Scrubs Bones, available for viewing almost daily at Starfleet Medical or Starfleet Academy Medical Clinic. Hotness factor: extreme; would kneel under table during surgery to perform Awesome Jim Kirk Oral Sex on, pending assessment of risk to patient. This impressive degree of hotness, is, however, effortlessly supplanted by—

Dress Uniform Bones, available for viewing at Interplanetary Neural Medicine Conference in Las Vegas, Nevada, today and tomorrow. Hotness factor: incandescent; would ride anywhere, any time.

Scrubs Bones being hotter than Cadet Uniform Bones is an anomaly; generally, less formal, less tailored outfits result in a lower hotness factor. Jim hypothesises that the discrepancy may be explained by the specialised _purpose_ of the garments. There are many cadets on campus; there are few fully qualified doctors. It is easier to become a cadet than it is to become a doctor here. Therefore, the fairly shapeless, primarily functional blue synth-silk has serious symbolic value. It represents a greater degree of achievement. Furthermore, Jim reflects, doctors typically wear scrubs only when they are working; cadets and officers alike are expected to wear their uniforms pretty much whenever they’re on campus outside the privacy of their own rooms and not doing something that requires its own special outfits. So the scrubs are associated with a professional environment only, and chances are if you’re going down on a doctor in scrubs, you’re going down on a doctor who is supposed to be working, not receiving Awesome Jim Kirk Oral Sex (hereafter AJKOS).

How exactly, Jim wonders, would Doctor Leonard McCoy respond to an offer of AJKOS?

***

He’s waiting in the familiar room in the medical dorm when McCoy gets back, ruffled and grouchy-looking, from his conference.

“Hi, Bones!” Jim cries happily. “Listen, I was wondering—”

“Not now, Jim.”

That isn’t a good start. He pouts. “I need to ask you something.”

McCoy pauses in the act of unpacking his duffel. “You injured?”

“No, no, no, Bones, it’s just—”

“You sick?”

“No, Bones, I’m fine, but I wanted to--”

“Are you in serious danger of becoming either injured or sick in the next thirty minutes?”

“Um, not unless I make you mad?” Jim guesses.

Bones nods, satisfied. “Then I need to sit my ass down and relax, kid. It’s been a long damn weekend.”

Jim brightens at this opening. “I could help with that! I could so help you relax! You like getting head, right? Everyone likes getting head. And I give really, really great head, Bones. I am The Headmaster.”

McCoy’s eyes narrow. “I’m going to pretend I never heard that.”

Jim actually feels his expression crumple as his metaphorical balloon of hope is punctured. He covers it quickly with a forced smile, but has the distinct feeling that mister medical here sees right through him.

“Kid,” McCoy says, more gently, “I need a couple drinks and an early night. But you’re welcome to stay for the first part.”

Okay. He can settle for that. Though it’s possible he sheds a tiny mental tear when McCoy starts unbuttoning that lovely dress uniform jacket with a view to removing it. Jim hopes he’s only going to demote himself to Casual Bones and not right down to Naked Bones, but beggars and choosers, you can only be one, right?

***

After several more failed attempts (at Scrubs Bones and Cadet Uniform Bones; opportunities to tilt at Dress Uniform Bones are few and far between), Jim decides that he may simply be aiming too high. Not that he believes that either of these Bones varieties is out of his league or anything. Jim’s league is vast and extremely inclusive. But Bones, perhaps, is not fully cognisant of this fact. Or he may be one of those people who mysteriously take offence when Jim does not find them particularly attractive naked.

Clearly, Jim needs to try starting with Naked or Casual Bones and working his way up. It’s been a long time since he’s had to have sex with someone who’s naked, but it can’t be as uninspiring as he remembers, right?

***

“What do you want?”

Jim smiles sweetly and translates. “ _Hello, Jim, mighty fine to see you. Come right on in._ Don’t mind if I do, Bones, don’t mind if I do.” And he nudges past Stubbly, Pyjama-clad Bones (hotness factor: warm, small chance of brush fires) and into the room.

“Don’t I have some place to be?” McCoy asks, watching with an inexplicable expression of disapproval as Jim makes himself at home on the bed.

“Nope,” Jim assures him. And then, because he has one of those faces people sometimes disbelieve, he puts on his Awesome Jim Kirk Command Voice (trademark pending) and asks “Computer: Does Cadet McCoy have any appointments this morning?”

The computer chimes. “Cadet McCoy’s first appointment is at 1400, a shift in the Starfleet Academy Medical Centre.”

“For which he would _like_ to be well-rested,” McCoy growls.

He _does_ look kinda tired and bloodshot and shit. And his socks don’t match. One has flowers, the other’s plain navy blue. “I could help you relax and get back to sleep again,” Jim offers. He’s a helpful soul, yes yes. He leers, just to make sure he’s been properly clear.

McCoy glances heavenwards. Seriously, that stare must, Jim feels sure, penetrate right through the ceiling and the dorms above and the rooftop atrium and shoot right through the sky. Then something about the tension in his body changes, as if he’s just thought of something. He looks at Jim. “Let me be sure I’m understanding you correctly here. I let you get me off, and then you toddle away and leave me to my beauty sleep?”

Jim nods eagerly, glad to be understood. “You see, Bones? This stuff doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“And afterwards, if I’m too busy snoozing to return any favours?”

Jim gestures expansively. “Then my work here is done.” The McCoy Eyebrows suggest that he remains dubious. “Man, I’m hardly going to object to some form of reciprocation if you’re in the mood, but it’s totally not necessary. Just enjoy.” He pats the bed beside him. “It’ll be awesome. Trust me, I’m an expert.”

“You start acting all awkward with me tomorrow, kid, don’t think I’m gonna waste my time sweet-talking you—”

“Bones. Your dick. My mouth. Now.”

Bones, it turns out, is not so bad at following orders.

***

“Admit it,” Jim says, the next time he bumps into McCoy. “That was the best sleep you’ve had in ages.”

McCoy makes a gesture that is either Andorian sign language for “fuck off, kid” or else silent McCoy-speak for “the next hypo I violently wave at you won’t be imaginary like this one, kid”. Either way, it confirms to Jim that, yes, his Awesome Jim Kirk Sexual Magic (AJKSM) _totally_ helped the guy get an awesome sleep. He grins as he saunters off, manages to spend a full three seconds planning his next brilliant move before he’s distracted by the sight of three gorgeous redheads in instructors’ greys.

***

Over the following weeks, Jim is able to provide Assistance Getting to Sleep to PJ Bones (four times AJKOS, twice Awesome Jim Kirk Frot, once Awesome Jim Kirk and Awesome Partner Mutual Masturbation), Casual Bones (twice AJKOS, once AJKF), and an entirely new species, Stupid Halloween Costume Bones (AJKOS, and the less said about that the better; the fur had totally creeped him out—though it was funny to see the snoring Bones head and the licked-clean Little Bones head sticking out of the gorilla costume afterwards). It gets to be quite the comfortable little routine. Jim’s actually starting to think that this could even be the type of relationship that wouldn’t need to be occasionally accessorised with other people.

“Bones,” he cries, by way of subtly broaching the subject, hoisting himself up to sit on the bench so he can swing his legs, “you wanna be, like, exclusive fuck-buddies and share awesome sexual adventures of adventurousness?”

Lab Coat Bones (mega sexy hot with an edge of danger) disposes of the plastic tip before carefully laying down his air displacement adjustable micro-pipette. Bones really does love his antiquated technology, huh? But Jim guesses he should be grateful not to have walked into this lab and found the guy mouth-pipetting strange liquids. Actually, scratch that. Leonard Horatio McCoy would never mouth-pipette anything more threatening than water. Unless he was trapped somewhere primitive with a desperate need to develop a vaccine to combat a planetary plague or something. Then he’d likely put himself at all kinds of risk if it could help save lives. Jim will have to remember that, in case he ever gets to be the guy’s commanding officer. It’s the sort of quality that sounds promising but also seems likely to cause trouble. Like genetically engineering a superior human who proceeds to try conquering the universe. Anyway, Bones lifts up his safety mask, glances around the room at all the other studiously focused students bent over their ‘scopes, test-tube racks, and padds, then turns to Jim. “Is the campus advanced xeno-biochem lab really the place for this conversation?”

Jim smiles and takes the opening. “Nope. Come on, we’ll get dim sum or tapas or something else small and awesome, I’m paying.”

Bones, typically, does not appear to appreciate the rare and beautiful treat he is being offered. He grumbles a lot. But he also packs up his stuff and follows Jim out through the airlock doors and into the world.

Somehow, because Bones is wily, the agreed-upon dim sum turns into a steak dinner somewhere between the time they leave the shadows of the campus gates behind them and the time they turn the corner to the local restaurant district.

***

“So,” Bones says, gesturing gently enough with his fork that Jim is confused as to whether or not he should panic, “despite what you said about all this casual and no-strings malarkey, you've decided you would like to be my steady sweetheart or something.”

Jim smiles, relaxes, pops a fry in his mouth. “Yup.” See? There’s just no reason for couples to fear Talking About Their Relationship. It’s just a matter of sitting down like adults to have a simple, frank conversation about—

“Been there, done that, fought in divorce court.”

Jim’s smile dies. It strikes him as a very low blow, using a past failed relationship as a weapon against the mighty Jim Kirk. “Yes,” he explains, patiently, “but I am not your ex-wife. I am fifty times more awesome than your ex-wife.” He may not have met the lady, but he’s confident on this point. “I’m sure she never let you throw up on her in shuttlecraft.”

Bones pauses in the act of raising his fork, and yolk drips slowly off the tines and onto his fries. Jim _loves_ eggy fries, but this is perhaps beside the point. “All right, kid. Suppose I were to agree to this proposed change in our relationship. What would my new rights and responsibilities be?”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to screw other people without talking to me first.” Jim enters Salesman Mode. “You’d receive fantastic blowjobs on a regular basis. I’d buy you meals and drinks and trinkets on appropriate occasions. I’d have free access to your quarters, and I’d keep a toothbrush in your bathroom.”

“Apart from the toothbrush,” Bones says, “—and I won’t deny that you ceasing to make free use of _mine_ would be a bonus—how is that different from what we have now?”

Jim frowns. “Well, you’d have exclusive rights to enjoy the popular entertainment venue that is my ass. And you wouldn’t feel the need to test me for STIs so freaking often, because the only person I’d be getting with is you.” It occurs to him too late that on planet McCoy, having excuses to test and preferably treat Jim for things is probably a _good_ thing. The guy sure seems to relish sticking him with needles. He ducks his head, takes a deep breath, goes for broke. “And I might let you see my secret sensitive inner self.”

There is far too much chewing before there is any sign of answering. Jim bears it stoically, even if his left foot does tap nervously on the worn restaurant carpet.

Bones picks up his glass, takes a deep draught of the red wine. It’s fancy and he ordered just the one glass. “Why not?” he asks at last.

Jim whoops (quietly, they’re in public) and punches the air.

Bones mutters something about how the worst that can happen is he regrets it the rest of his life. Jim tunes him out in favour of contemplating sexy ways to celebrate their new understanding, like how there’s always some sort of official cocktail party after a major interplanetary treaty is signed. (The Klingons, he reflects, almost certainly wouldn’t be into cocktail parties. But the Klingons had never, to his knowledge, been much into making any kind of treaty with anyone for any reason, so that was hardly relevant.)

Alas, they do not get to celebrate tonight. Apparently there is a big important medical procedures test in the morning, and Bones therefore intends to stay up late tonight attempting to cram stuff he already knows into his already overfull head. Whatever, Jim nods and smiles and ignores the muttering when he assures his friend that he’ll do just fine. Then he goes back to daydreaming. They have a date tomorrow night, and it’s going to be _spectacular_.

***

“Could you put some clothes on?” Jim asks, dropping his pants. Isn’t it just his luck to walk in on the guy when he’s just emerged from the shower? That’ll teach him to arrive early for dates!

“Kid, you make about as much sense as a brothel in a convent.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Just trust me, okay? I’m a sexual savant. Jimmy the sex guru. Trust the Jimmy.”

“You’re something, all right,” McCoy says, but he heads obediently for his dresser. “Okay,” he says, and sighs massively. “What do you want me to wear?”

Jim’s mind rapidly computes the relative hotness factors of the various Boneses. Would it _really_ be aiming too high if—? And aren’t Starfleet brass types always saying things about daring and winning?

Jim swallows and tries to look worthy. “Is, uh, your dress uniform freshly pressed?”

McCoy’s eyebrows seem to be staging _Peter Pan_ , specifically preparing to fly out the window.

“Please, Bones. Pleeeeeeease?” He peels down his underwear, because his dick is totally begging too and letting this be seen can only help his case. Probably.

“So let me get this straight.” A furrowy frown. Not the kind reserved for idiot med cadets who don’t know their ilium from their alimentary canal, but more as if Jim has just challenged him to explain substrate level phosphorylation in five words or less. “I’m supposed to get all dressed up just so you can undress me?”

“Oh _hell_ no!” For a moment, it’s completely beyond Jim how Bones can have this so wrong. Then he remembers that sex doesn’t come as naturally to some as it does to others. That’s why he is Jimmy the Sex Savant, so he can help people reach new levels of sexual nirvana. He therefore calms himself. “No, Bones. You’ll be in full dress uniform while you fuck me.”

“And meanwhile you’ll be naked.”

Jim begins to understand the hesitation. The man, after all, has never seen him fully sans-clothing. In basketball shorts while playing one-on-one, yes, half peeled out of his academy uniform while engaging in other forms of one-on-one, also yes. That one time rocking the open-backed robe in the emergency clinic, yes. Nude, no. His concern is understandable, if unnecessary. “Don’t worry, I’m mega-hot naked.” He demonstrates this by removing his undershirt with a flourish, leaving him bare but for socks.

McCoy doesn’t seem to have got it yet, but he _has_ started pulling on underwear, so that’s something. Jim licks his lips as he watches the towel dropped to the floor, the plain black fabric pulled up to cradle the thick, half-hard cock and hairy balls. Underwear Bones has to be at least ten percent hotter than Towel-clad Bones, which is odd since the towel covered more. Jim files away the observation for later analysis, since he’s not here to write a dissertation. (Although, if that was a topic his advisor would actually _approve_ …)

“So I’ll be dressed and you’ll be naked,” McCoy says. He opens his closet door, and _there it is_ , just hanging there like a big ol’ slice of sexy pie.

Jim’s pleased he’s finally being understood. “Yep.”

“Okay,” McCoy says. “Why, now?”

Jim blinks. “Because that’s pretty much the definition of sexy, Bones, that’s why.”

McCoy gives him the kind of assessing gaze he probably uses most often on psych patients (this would be extra hot coming from Scrubs Bones, Jim decides). But he takes down the hanger, deftly removes the pants from their polythene bag, steps in, zips up, and immediately overtakes Ruth in her cheerleading outfit as the fourteenth hottest thing Jim’s ever seen in his life.

For a long, long time, possibly entire aeons, he just stands there and stares.

He has to move, now, or he’s just going to melt into a useless puddle of Jim Kirk Goo. Or possibly explode. So he dashes to the bathroom, opens the cupboard where Bones keeps the--

“Where’s the lube?” he whines. “Tell me you have lube. I really really want your dick in my ass tonight!”

He makes the mistake of poking his head back around the door. McCoy has his dress shirt out now, and Jim’s slightly dazed watching him shrug into it, turn his precise surgeon’s fingers to doing up the cuffs. Oh, boy, this is gonna kill him.

“Bathroom cupboard--”

“Dude, I just _looked_ in the bathroom cup--”

“--box labelled as laxative pills.”

Oh. That explains why he didn’t spot it. “Weird.”

“Not when you consider what happened to the last bottle.”

It’s possible his attempts to look innocent are undermined by the rising blush. “It went off?” he suggests lamely.

“You’re damn right. It went off in the hot little hand of a skinny cadet from Iowa who really should have—”

“So,” Jim says loudly, with a handclap, “bathroom cupboard. I’ll be right back.”

After locating the heaven-sent elixir, Jim preps himself, leaning awkwardly over the sink and watching his face grimace in the mirror as he opens himself up. He’s fast, sloppy, and not particularly gentle, but he’s still on the verge of blowing his load prematurely when he thinks about what’s waiting for him in the other room. When he’s done, he washes his hands, grabs the bottle and the condoms he found with it, and races out again—

—only to be brought to a stumbling halt by the sign of the full-fledged, boots and all, eminently marketable Dress Uniform Bones.

“OhwowfuckBonesguh,” he observes intelligently. A moment later, he remembers to shut his mouth.

_Wow._

Jim doesn’t have a dress uniform. As far as he knows, there’s not even such a thing as a dress version of the cadets’ uniform. But Bones is a doctor and a cadet, not a cadet who is training to be a doctor. He’s a fully qualified doctor dude who does serious important research and occasionally gets to go off to conferences and shit. Where he’s representing Starfleet Medical, so he has to have a uniform… A genuine authentic Starfleet doctor’s dress uniform, blue and shiny and tailored and with a starchy white collar he keeps pulling at like it’s strangling instead of super-sexy. There’s a special belt and boots and cufflinks and a shiny silver arrowhead insignia over the breast with the heavily stylised caduceus symbol of Starfleet Medical (should be the Rod of Asclepius, Jim’s asshole brain notes, but it’s unreasonable to hold Bones responsible for the errors of logo designers). There’s no rank symbol because Bones doesn’t officially have a rank yet, but Jim minds that not at all when the whole outfit makes the man stand up straighter, pull his shoulders back. Makes Jim want to get down on his knees and pay some serious obeisance.

Bones finally stops fidgeting with his collar. “So, Jim, how you want to play this?”

Jim pretends he has to think about it. “Thought I might rub myself gleefully all over you and then fuck myself on your dick. That work for you?”

McCoy lifts his arms invitingly and lets them fall, as if to say _be my guest_.

Accordingly, Jim charges, bears this beautifully-wrapped gift of a man back until he lands safely in his desk chair, then climbs on his lap and begins applying loud and enthusiastic kisses to those stubbled cheeks and pouting lips. Freshly showered, Bones smells wonderfully of man and that subtly-scented soap with the lilies on the packet. Warm hands land on Jim’s ass, at first uncertain, but then— _finally!_ —starting to knead in a manner that can only be read as proprietary. Oh, yes, he hopes Bones is gonna be greedy. Jim likes to be wanted. He gives a little encouraging shimmy, nibbles a lip, runs a hand down over the smooth fabric of the synth-silk jacket and down, down between them. And _yes_ , the McDick is definitely entertained, hot and hard against the tight pants. Bones even groans and grinds up into Jim’s cupping hand.

“Gonna ride you,” Jim informs him helpfully, between kisses. “Me all naked and you all dressed. Like you’re just gonna dump me on my ass after and go right back to work.” He stows the lube and condoms in one of Bones’s convenient pockets. “See? Sexy as hell, but also useful.”

“Yes, Jim,” Bones says, satisfyingly breathless, “I agree that you’re brilliant. Now how about getting started on those fine ideas of yours?”

Oh, yes, Jim is quite happy to slither down onto his knees on the floor and slowly, reverently, undo the fly of the smooth dress uniform pants, lower the underwear just enough to release the McDick to enjoy a second of freedom before he captures it in his mouth. Bones gives up a little gasp and a squirm and Jim revels in it. All he can see is fine fabric, all he can taste is sex, and his vulnerable naked body is kissed everywhere by the perfectly conditioned dorm air. But he mustn’t get carried away—no coming yet, Bones!—this is only the warmup, not the race.

For best effect, Jim decides as he gets up again, they should both be facing the lovely full-length mirror on the back of the closet door—apparently standard issue in the medical dorms; it sure is nice for some, huh? Fortunately, the standard issue desk chair is a swiveller, so it’s easy enough to turn Bones to face the mirror.

Bones watches Jim work the condom down over his cock with the sort of intensity Jim imagines he might show if this was a practical exam he was grading. (He’s momentarily distracted by thoughts of what kind of class might have this kind of exam, and whether or not he could manage to squeeze one more class into his already woefully overloaded schedule.) A little more lube for the Bonester, and then Jim’s putting the stuff aside, wiping his hands on a convenient item of discarded clothing on the desk. It’s probably his, since Bones seems to have bought into surgical neatness as a lifestyle. Totally worth it.

Jim smiles as he surveys his handiwork, the eager glistening erection poking out of the spectacularly formal uniform. Oh yes. This is going to be an immensity of awesomeness, and that’s his scholarly opinion.

He spins, reaches back first to find Bones’s hands and guide them to his hips, then to brace one hand against the desk for support and locate the McDick with the other. Bones helps, Jim shimmies like a pro, and they come together one glorious slow inch at a time.

In the mirror, they both watch as Jim slowly sinks down to fill himself with glorious, glorious cock. Various zippers and symbols and doodads jingle and rustle and swish, sexy soundtrack to the reflected visual, and then he’s there, he’s down, he’s ready. He groans, tips his head back onto the padded, braid-adorned shoulder of a Starfleet dress uniform. _Fuck,_ he thinks, _this is perfect._ “Fuck, this is perfect,” he says. Then Bones does this awesome hip roll thing and man, it is so on.

“Damn kid… pretty… fucking… stubborn damn kid…”

Jim rides him harder. “You forgot sexy and cunning and incredibly scorching hot even in his birthday suit.”

“I think you should shut up.”

A hand snakes around Jim’s side, closes around his dick. A skillful hand.

Jim shuts up, if you don’t count the moaning.

***

**Epilogue**

Jim freezes in the doorway, skin still flushed from his post-workout shower feeling suddenly cold in the recycled ship’s air. The lights are down low, but he can definitely make out that someone in a command tunic is sitting on the far side of the big bed, his back to the door, rummaging around in Bones’s bedside cabinet.

“What,” Jim demands, in his Awesome Jim Kirk Command Voice, “do you think you’re doing in the Captain’s quarters?”

“Get in here, idiot,” says the intruder. The intruder with the very familiar, very pissed-off, very Bonesy growl.

Jim relaxes, steps in, allows the cabin doors to close.

Bones gets up, turns to face Jim. There’s a click and a candle springs to life, lighting up the whole room in its flickering, romantic glow the way only an artificial candle can. But Jim can’t really spare much attention for the source of the illumination when it shows him Leonard H. McCoy, handsome and freshly-shaven and _perfect_ , with a command gold tunic stretched tight across his magnificent chest. A command gold tunic with some _very_ familiar stripes. “Happy Birthday, kid,” he says, holding his arms out to emphasise his outfit.

Starfleet Captain Bones. Just for him. Hotness factor… can’t calculate, too busy drooling. “Bones, I, I don’t know what to say—”

“That’s Captain Bones to you, Ensign,” he says, in a very different voice. “Now strip and show me some goddamn respect.”

Jim whoops and jumps for joy, jumps right up onto their bed. “Yes, sir.” He lets his gaze drop to his lover’s crotch. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Why yes, yes you will.”

***END***

  
[](http://penguinz.nfshost.com/bonesgorilla.jpg)   
Bones passed out in gorilla costume, by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[**nix_this**](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/)  



End file.
